Forget Me Not
by FanficIsntShameful
Summary: John went through a series of traumatic experiences, causing him to have a seizure that inhibits his memory. Sherlock visits him every week, but with every visit the pain simply grows. When an ominous new threat to London is exposed, he has to choose- Will he stay and support his friend, or leave him to save millions? Major angst, some violence, strong language, minor smut


Sherlock woke early on that particular monday. It was raining and grey, as tended to be the habit of London in late November. The tired young man swing his legs over the side of his bed, crouched over and tried rubbing not only sleep, but many other dark feelings from his eyes. Hoping he could rid himself of some dread by shoving his fists into his eyes and scratching it away from his scalp when he ran his hands through his prematurely greying hair. He sat then, staring bleakly and without expression at the wall across from him. He blinked once after about five minutes and rose swiftly, slipping on his dressing gown and opening his bedroom door with new found vigor. He ate quickly and dressed, and shouted at Mrs Hudson before he left the flat that he would be back by 9:30pm. He had gotten into the habit of telling her when he was going out and when he would be back for some reason. He never had before.

When the taxi dropped him off at his destination, he stood outside in the downpour, his jacket darkening with the precipitation. He was always hesitant during these visits. Always dreading. And yet he always came. Every Monday at 10:45 am sharp. He never missed a week, no matter what case he was working on or how badly it had gone the last time.

Finally Sherlock stepped into the formidable structure, and signed in at the front desk, flashing his visitors pass and addressing the clerk by her first name. He had become familiar with the staff at the asylum, after visiting so many times.

Sherlock made his way up the long drear corridor, needing no directions from the nurses he passed. When he had at last stopped in front of the room of the person he was visiting, he stopped, as he always did, and hoped, as had become his routine, that perhaps, this time, the man behind the door would remember who Sherlock was. Sherlock sent up a silent prayer to a deity he didn't believe in, swiped his all access key card, and stepped into the cell.

"Hello John. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm here to read you a story."

oOo

It had gone fairly smoothly that time. John had been polite with Sherlock, treating him with distant kindness as Sherlock read him the book. It was the kind of friendliness you would extend to a stranger. Because to John Watson's mind, Sherlock was as much a stranger as any bloke you would pass on the street.

It had been the trauma of Sherlocks unexpected return combined with the horror of Mary's death that very night in a freak car accident that had finally caused Johns mind to snap. His body had gone into overdrive, causing him to have a seizure, rendering him sightless and speechless for months. When he had finally been able to see and speak, the first face he had seen was Sherlocks, kneeling at his bedside. And the first words he uttered, the first words Sherlock had heard from his best friend since the night it all went black;

"Who are you?"

oOo

Sherlock didn't go right back to the flat after he had left John. He had an appointment with Mycroft about some trouble with Sir-something-or-other in parliament. Still, it wasn't incredibly pressing, and he had about 30 minutes to kill before he was expected by Molly at Bart's for analysis of a young mans body.

Sherlock didn't hail a cab when he left the asylum. It was still raining, but not as fiercely as before. The freezing water on his hair and face kept his mind alert as he wandered about the city. He allowed himself to daydream, which he rarely did, and found himself on a park bench a while later, unaware of how he had gotten there. He had become so engrossed in his thoughts he had wandered off to the bench outside where Sherlock and John had had their most baffling case together, The Bloody Guardsmen, as John had put it in his blog. It was one of the unsolved ones, as Sherlock was loath to recall, but it held one of his fondest memories of John. When he, the sociopath, had been trying to solve the murder, John had discovered that it wasn't one at all yet, and saved the mans life.

The detective checked his phone for the time. It read half 4; he was late to Bart's. Sherlock did hail a taxi this time, and made sure the driver stepped on it to get there before Molly left for home. Molly. She was Sherlocks only friend now. Lestrade had retired after Johns incarceration, and rarely kept in touch. Mrs Hudson had grown distant. She still brought him his tea every morning, but never came into the upstairs flat otherwise. Molly was all he had left. It was becoming increasingly hard for him to deal with her obsession with him, however. He had to continually remind himself of her engagement, and of his sociopathic natures. Because it seemed to Sherlock, that to anyone who was looking from the outside, it would seem that Sherlock had begun to develop feelings for her. He knew he hadn't and wasn't, yet he had become much kinder and more familiar with her since the incident with John.

He arrived at Bart's and found Molly signing out of the hospital. He walked quickly, almost jogged up to her, and she glared at him and walked past. Sherlock hung his head, then began to follow her.

"Molly. Molly!"

She stopped and turned.

"I can't keep doing this for you, Sherlock. I have to go home. Tom will wonder where I am if I stay longer, I've already waited over 45 minutes for you. I'm sorry, Sherlock. This one will have to wait."

He watched her walk briskly away, and out of his sight when she descended the stairs. Sherlock leaned back against the wall, and let himself sink to the ground. His world was falling apart around him. And for once in his life, he had no idea how to fix it.

The following week, Sherlock found himself awakening with that sense of dread that had become all to familiar in the months since John's incident.

After a hasty breakfast and a well needed shower, Sherlock made his way once again to the cold building that imprisoned the body his long time friend. Where Johns mind was, Sherlock knew not. Only that he still had to hope that perhaps one day, it would return. John was in the asylum not because of his forgetfulness and long-term amnesia. If those were the only side affects of the trauma he had experienced, he would simply be put in a home somewhere on the English countryside. Since the accident, John had grown prone to outbursts of extreme violence against himself.

In the first month after his release from Bart's, Sherlock had taken him back to the flat, where he had cared for John as his housekeeper for about five weeks. Then, on a Wednesday afternoon at 5:32 pm, Sherlock had come home from getting biscuits at the downstairs shop, and found John on the floor in another seizure, having stabbed himself multiple times in the hands and thighs with a fork Sherlock had left out on the counter.

So now John was in the asylum. Wrapped up in a coat that hugged him tight, keeping him safe from himself and safe for others. At first, John had been able to keep Sherlock in his memory, and after the day at the hospital had begun to accept Sherlock as part of his life. Now, every week when Sherlock came back, it was friendly introductions and the kindness of strangers. When Sherlock arrived at Johns cell he made no hesitation. He swiped his card for the 19th time since John had been admitted and entered the room.

Immediately, John started screaming. Sherlock jumped and pushed himself against the wall of the room, reaching out his hands saying

"John! John, please! It's me! It's me, it's Sherlock! Please!"

John kept screaming and writhing, tears streaming down his face, until a large nurse rushed him out of the room and another helped a dazed Sherlock up from the floor. Later, in the office of the chief doctor at the asylum, Sherlock was being questioned about what had happened.

"When you walked into his room, he saw you, and then what happened?" Sherlock couldn't help but deduce a little about the man. Left handed, Un-married, no, divorced with two- no three cats. One grown child and one teenager that is currently living with mum. A heart condition and hasn't seen his therapist in a week.

"I walked in and as soon as he saw me he started...screaming."

The doctor made a few notes, then looked up at Sherlock.

"And you hadn't said anything at all? You simply walked into the room?"

Folds his shirts and bikes to work.

"Yes."

Old drinking habit.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, you may leave."

"I can still come visit him, can't I?"

The doctor looked up from his notes and removed his spectacles.

"I think that right now, what would be best, is that you perhaps stop seeing him for a while."

"No. No I want to keep coming."

"I cannot allow it at this time, in his current state. You can return your key card at the front desk, and we will contact you when he is ready to be seen again."

The man turned back to his clipboard, signaling that the conversation had come to a close.

Sherlock left the office, but did not turn right and make his way to the front lobby. Instead, he turned left, towards the intensive care ward. It would take a hell of a lot more than a doctors note to keep Sherlock from John.

Sherlock rounded the corner at a run, dodging medicine trollies and various startled staff members as he sped his way towards the intensive care ward where they new they would have taken John. He still had his all access key card, and he was sure they wouldn't have deactivated it this soon. He managed to get past the desk that was in front of the double doors to the ward with a bit of luck. She hadn't been told about his prohibition from seeing John yet, and she simply let him pass when he flashed her his ID.

He scanned the doors of the rooms, running up and down the hallways, looking into the tiny windows that led into the various cells. Johns new room wouldn't have a name tag yet, and would probably be fairly well supervised. He prayed that he would be able to get by the nurses the same way he had with the desk lady. Either God was listening or it was Lady Luck on his side, Sherlock managed to convince the nurses to let him in to see John again. They said he was under heavy sedation, so it was almost like Sherlock wouldn't even be there. Which worked in his favor, since they certainly didn't want John having another episode.

Sherlock went into the cell very slowly and quietly, finding John on a thin cot-bed up about three feet from the ground, curled up in readable small, wrapped like a child in his course, tan straight jacket, breathing slowly, seeming very much at peace despite his condition and surroundings. Sherlock knew the nurses would be watching on the many cervailance cameras about the room, but he didn't care. Sherlock, moving very slowly and deliberately, crawled onto the cot with John, maneuvering the small man into his lap, so that Sherlock was holding Johns head against his shoulder, with his arms under the doctors legs, cradling him against the detectives body. Sherlock lay his lips against the mans hair, smelling sterility and cheep wash, and trying to remember what kind of soap John used to use.

John shifted in his sedated slumber, moving closer into Sherlock, curling his head down into Sherlocks chest. When he had begun crying, Sherlock couldn't remember, just that he most definitely was now. Johns hair was becoming damp in the spot where Sherlocks cheek was resting. Sherlocks tears fell silently, his body slowly rocking on the weary cot, as he cradled the delicate body that once held the consciousness and heart of a man he now knew he had always loved. To late though, came the realization of Sherlocks feelings for John.

Time passed slowly, and eventually the nurses made Sherlock leave. With the tenderest of care, and with all the delicacy and loving touch of a craftsmen or artist, Sherlock removed Johns body from his, laying him back onto the sparse cot, and pulling the sad excuse of a sheet up over his friends frail figure. Racked with emotion he knew not how to control, Sherlock stumbled out of the asylum, half wishing he hadn't come, half knowing it couldn't have gone any other way.

oOo

'I'm so tired

can't move

why can't I move

MARY

hungry

so cold

Mary

who's Mary?

hungry

people moving around me

can't see

shadows

can't speak

MARY

someone touching me

someone holding me

warmth

thfinally warmth

who's Mary?

someone crying on my face...'

John opened his eyes and saw black. But it wasn't dark. He was looking at black cloth. The black cloth of a jacket. A jacket that was on a man. A man that was holding him. Holding him and crying. Why was the man crying? Why was this man here? Who is this man?

John tried to move out of the mans arms so he could see who it was, but ended up just becoming closer to the stranger, who hugged John closer as he shifted. John smelt chemicals on the man. And...rain. Yes, rain. He hadn't smelt rain in...

'Who is Mary?'

John blinked, and the face of a beautiful woman flashed behind Johns eyes. He flinched, but kept his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the strangers body.

After about ten more minutes, some people in white came and took the nice man away. The nice man was very gentle with him, and put a blanket on him. John slept, and dreamed of a beautiful woman in white and a strange man in a long coat.

oOo

Sherlock made his way slowly home after his time with John. His mind was racing with a flood of emotions and questions. It was cloudy, but not raining. Sherlock wished it was. He wanted the earth to reflect his heart. He internally punished himself every day for the feelings he was having for John. He had spent the better part of his life building up walls and boundaries, keeping everyone at a distance. Then that man, that amazing man had walked in and toppled it all in the blink of an eye.

At first, Sherlock hadn't known what to feel with John. He had kept his distance, observing the man and trying to figure out exactly what it was about him that made Sherlock feel so exposed. Lost in thought, for the third time that day, Sherlock hadn't noticed the black car pull up beside him where he was standing. The detective groaned, and stepped into the back of the ominous car.

Mycroft.

Couldn't he just send a text like a normal person? Well...Mycroft was anything but normal, yet Sherlock had begun feeling more ordinary than ever these past few months, what with dealing with depression, anxiety and a whole world of emotion he hadn't allowed himself to grow accustomed to in the past. He suspected Mycroft noticed this, but Sherlock didn't care. Not anymore, not about that. He only had room left in his mind for one one thing that occupied his every waking thought and all of his dreams.

John Hamish Watson, and where his mind had gone.

Sherlock had always kept his heart a safe distance from his head. Being sure to filter everything, keeping his mind open and his heart behind walls. John had been one of the biggest things Sherlock had to work at keeping out of his head. But Sherlock had begun to notice him popping up every where. Sherlock noticed him in his mind palace. He felt John in the sheets on his bed. He heard John in the kettle boiling in the morning, and smelt him in the dust on his books. It was unnerving, yet comforting. It was almost as if John was still there, living an breathing in Sherlock, coming out in the little things, manifesting himself around the flat and in Sherlocks mind. Despite his denial, Sherlock understood that what he was feeling for John could not be ignored. He also understood how a relationship would affect his work, if it were even possible, which now, given the circumstances, it was not.

Sherlock pushed the thoughts of John out of his mind and tried to focus on the task at hand- dealing with his ever-incompetent older brother and the case that was waiting for him.


End file.
